


Whitetail Dove

by Platform 13 (freshneverfrozen)



Series: Hope County Bird Watching [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I like big tropes and I cannot lie, I'm sorry you wanted originality with your fanfiction?, Rating May Change, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-30 09:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshneverfrozen/pseuds/Platform%2013
Summary: You didn’t want much out of life, but dying in Hope County, Montana was a low bar for anybody. Deputy Staci Pratt would be inclined to agree.OrThat fic where the reader accidentally saves Staci-with-an-I and they eventually take their clothes off





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Three Part fic. Probably. 
> 
> I take Far Cry 5 one-shot requests, I guess? But I think the Seeds are nasty psychopaths, so consider that. Eli Palmer though. Woof, girl. AU's, you say? You got it, babe.

There are only a few hours of daylight left when you finally see Missoula vanishing in your rearview. With a tank of gas and some luck that the phone signal holds out long enough to get you to the Idaho line, the day’s drive may prove a perfectly unexciting success. That was, at least in your life so far, the very best kind. No flat tires, a greasy midnight diner, and a cheap roadside motel will suit you fine. It’s an easily accomplished to-do list. You smile to yourself and spare Missoula one last glance before reaching to change the radio station from the news droning at you. _Something-something-North Korea and Russia_...current events and doomsaying aren’t the sort of thing that screams ‘open road’ and with a few presses of the button, arena rock spits to life. You might have changed it again were it not for the wind whipping at you through the window. It’s cool, very nearly cold, and seems to smell more of open air as the music grows louder. 

It all feels _right_. You’re happy - you might be on your way to Nowhere, Idaho, but you’re happy about it and the smile pulling at your lips grows wider. 

It takes three hours and that damn radio for it all to change. 

The rock station cuts out, shrilling so suddenly that you wince and slap at the dial. _Damn_ , you think, eyes flicking up again at the empty moonlit road that curves ahead in the darkness, _what the hell..._ Granted, this was the ass-end of Montana but the radio signal shrieks again and you can’t help but think of all those late-night UFO specials that always seem to start with radio interference. 

Later, you’ll swear that it’s only a moment - just a fraction of one - that you take your eyes off the road. Your foot reacts before your mind even knows what it’s looking at and the seconds that pass are filled with the screeching of brakes over static. The road itself is midnight bright between pine trees and sloping rock faces on either side as a shadow scrambles down out of a ravine and into the lane ahead of you, first on two legs then all fours as its feet catch and fail against the asphalt. A deer, a bear, little green men for all you know, but the car fishtails to the right and oh God, if it flips it’s going right off the side of the mountain \- 

You cut the wheel out of instinct because no, you can’t die driving off a cliff in Montana and even your muscles seem to know this as they seize and brace for impact. When it comes, it is hardly more than a tap. The car skids to a stop, straddling the lanes, and the last thing you expect to see are two hands pressed against the glass of the passenger window. 

_Is that -_ your stomach churns and the breath you’ve held in your throat chokes out. 

_Oh God, it’s a person!_

For a long moment, neither of you move. There’s no way he can’t realize how close he had come to dying and you, you had almost just killed a guy _and_ driven off a cliff. Paralysis snares your muscles, your body tight and still as though it might snap from the hair-thin wire of luck on which you are perched. You blink once, twice, and that is when you notice the blood on his hands. He lifts them from the glass but the prints remain, dirt and blood and oh God - what happened to him? Had you hit him after all? 

His...uniform? You recognize the semi-regulated shirt of law enforcement, complete with patches and a name tag you can’t read in the darkness. It’s stained with dark spots that stiffen the fabric too much to be dirt and his chest, heaving shallowly, pulls at missing buttons. He _looks_ like you’d run over him. 

Cop or not, you don’t dare get out of your car. With your fingers flexing over the steering wheel, you wait and watch and you try to ignore the cold foreboding that creeps over your skin. Then the man steps - _stumbles_ \- away from the car and looks back over his shoulder toward the ravine from which he had appeared. 

A cop all but sprinting into the road, bloodied and Christ, but he is _bloody._ He’s gouged and bruised and you can’t make out his features for the grime and shadows but the whites of his eyes are showing too much. Your eyes follow his as they turn back toward the mountain; you’re almost afraid to look, something telling you don’t, don’t look, turn around and go back the way you came. There is nothing amongst the rocks, only still shadows, but in that moment, he appears as though he may bolt again. He backs away from your car, his legs jerking beneath him, and he seems to be weighing his odds of making it down the next slope. 

Fear and a horrible, inexplicable sinking in the pit of your stomach tells you what you don’t want to know. This guy is going to die if he runs again. You don’t know how or why or if he deserves it, but something tells you that you’re looking at a dead man. 

You roll down the passenger window half-way and the hiss of it draws his attention back to you. You try to speak, to say _something_ , but the words catch behind your teeth now that he’s watching you. You’ve never seen human eyes look the way his do, wild and white. 

“Officer,” you begin slowly, “Are you...what happened?” 

He blinks, like he isn’t quite sure he’s heard you. He might not even be certain he hasn’t imagined you entirely. 

“Officer?” 

You hear the dull slam of his hands against the door before you register that he has moved and it makes you jolt back in your seat. He pulls at the door handle and you’ll never take auto-locks for granted again. 

“We gotta go,” his voice is hoarse, a croak more than words, “You gotta get me out of here.” 

He yanks at the handle again but it’s not budging. So much for a roadside diner and hotel. There is no one around that you’ve seen and it’s been an hour since you had passed any cars. If there’s civilization in the valley below, you can’t tell it for the trees. 

Your phone is tucked under your thigh and the familiar weight of it in your hand eases your nerves. 

“Let me call -” 

“I’m...I’m…” he searches for his words, finds them, and spits them at you rapid fire, “I’m Deputy Staci Pratt with the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. We have to get out of these mountains - _you_ have to get out before he finds you. You, you’re weak, he’ll -” 

A chorus of howls break the air, carried down from the pines and the deputy’s coherency vanishes with them. Wolves? Montana has plenty, but how did a deputy end up with wolves after him? Where was his patrol car? 

“Oh God,” he gasps, his hands scraping through his hair, “Oh God.” 

You never would have opened the door if it hadn’t been for the tears in his eyes. But they cut down his cheeks, streaking the dirt and glinting in the blue-white night. There was no way this didn’t qualify in the top three dumbest things you had done in your life. Leaning across the console, you push open the door. 

“Get in.” 

And just like that, the deputy drops into the seat, his nails scoring the leather as he begs you to _drive_. 

“You gotta go,” he says, “Go, go, go.” 

You pull the car away, righting it easily and you’ve barely made it around the next curve when the deputy tells you to switch off your headlights. He’s reaching across you then, his fingers twisting at the knobs protruding from the stirring wheel. 

“Whoa –“ 

“The moon, you can see with it, right? Gotta be smart,” he explains. 

You _can_ see, he’s right. The moon is bright and full and somehow hateful now in a way you can’t explain. 

He can’t find the switch himself before you shove him back into his side of the vehicle. 

“Turn ‘em off!” 

“Jesus,” you snap, though you twist the lights off all the same. 

As your eyes adjust to the darkness, uneasiness begins to slide up your belly. Lashing out at you seems to be the furthest thing from his mind but whatever frightens a man in this way isn’t something you want any part of. When you glance over at him, the deputy is pinned to the seat like a cat on too tall a shelf, pressed back and down, his body tight. For the first time you notice the smell in the enclosed space that hadn’t been there before. Rank, something more than blood and dirt, and potent enough to turn your stomach. 

You’re not sure you can stand the silence. 

“Where’re we going?” 

He doesn’t answer. You’re not sure he’s heard you. 

“Deputy,” you try again, “Deputy…” What had he said his name was? 

He chokes on a single word. 

“Meat.” 

The response catches you off guard, makes your blood freeze beneath your skin. 

“We’re _meat_.” 

_Holy shit._

You try again, more firmly this time. If this guy has some sort of psychotic break in your car, you’ve got no way of stopping him. Whatever he’s been through, wherever his mind is taking him, you know that you have to coax him back from that edge. 

“Hey, what’s your name?” 

After a quiet moment, he tells you again that it’s Staci, Staci Pratt. You offer him yours and after the first few times he repeats it, as though he’s trying to make sure it’s real, you understand that you’ve given him something onto which he can hold for now. 

“You’re not from Hope county,” he says, “Why the fuck did you come here?” 

“Chance,” you say, “Google Maps.” 

“They don’t know?” he asks. “They still don’t know?” 

“Who?” 

He pitches forward all of a sudden, drawing his feet up and curling around his knees. It’s not something you’ve ever seen a grown man do. 

“The National Guard, the FBI, they’re not coming?” 

The question takes you by surprise. 

“I…I didn’t see anybody. There weren’t any check points, if that’s what you mean. I just drove straight in from Missoula -” 

A sob is ripped from him, a broken, raw sound that chokes you as much as it does him. 

“Hey,” you don’t dare reach out to touch him, “let’s call somebody, yeah? Take my phone -” 

It occurs to you too late that it’s a mistake to offer it to him. He could smash it, throw it out the window, or… 

“Can’t,” he shakes his head, “The Sheriff’s Department...no, they’re no good. I, I need a radio. I can call the sheriff.” 

Anybody as close to hysterics as he is can’t be duplicitous. Crazy, maybe, but somehow it occurs to you that any danger you’re in isn’t going to come from the guy in the seat next to you. 

Carefully, your voice soft, you press him. “Staci...I don’t understand.” 

He responds to his name, blinking at you. 

“Let me call -” 

“Jerome,” he says, though he has the presence of mind to catch himself, “Father Jeffries. I know his number. He can help.” 

“A priest?” 

_A religious crisis at a time like this?_

“He can help us.” 

You don’t like his chosen pronoun, but you’re not going to argue. Having someone else know this guy is in your car only has a low probability of being a bad thing. Reluctantly, you pass Staci your phone. 

“I hope he’s made it,” he mutters, his thumb swiping over the screen. 

_Made it?_

“What do you mean ‘made it?’” 

But the deputy is already tapping away at your phone. He puts it to his ear and in the silence of the car, you can hear the series of beeps that tells you the call can’t go through. 

Staci looks away, passing the phone back to you. “I knew it…I had hoped...” 

“We’ll try again once -” 

“No,” he snaps, his teeth clicking as he shuts his mouth and stares you down, “It’s the whole fucking county.” 

In the minutes that follow, you are both silent. He watches you carefully in the darkness, angled in the seat toward you. His eyes roam over the outline of your face, making your skin prick. There’s no menace to it really, but you get the feeling he doesn’t trust you anymore than you trust him. He doesn’t look away - just stares and blinks and, you think, tries to convince himself you’re still there. 

Finally, he turns back to the road and you would rather he not have said what he does next. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

Those words set your teeth on edge more than any crazed ramblings. 

“What were you running from?” you ask. 

For a moment, Staci looks like he might answer you, but then his hands white-knuckle at the edges of the seat and whoever or whatever is on his mind keeps him silent for a mile more. 

Finally, he speaks and something in his voice brings the gas pedal nearer the floor. 

“You need to drive faster.” 

Why you listen when he tells you twenty minutes later to turn down a dirt road, you don’t know. The path is hardly a road at all, just a set of overgrown tire treads in the earth that you would have missed had he not pointed between two snapped pines. 

“What’s this way?” You can hear the edge in your own voice. “Shouldn’t we drive to a town?” 

Staci glances at you and then back to the path. 

“I need to get to a radio. There’s an old cabin up here -” 

_A cabin. In the woods. With this guy._ Alarm bells should be blaring, but for whatever reason, they aren’t. The little voice in the back of your head that has always kept you out of dark alleys and empty parking lots doesn’t have much to say now. Staci Pratt, wild-eyed and injured, isn’t a threat to you. Not immediately anyway. It’s the thought of not doing what he says, of continuing blindly down that dark stretch of road you’d been on, that makes the uneasiness set in. 

“A buddy of mine used to come here during hunting season. His daddy was a prepper.” 

“A what?” 

Staci looks at you and it’s hard to make out his expression with the trees blocking the moonlight. 

“A prepper,” he explains as you lean further over the dash to keep an eye on the road, “They’ll have a stash of stuff if someone hasn’t already got to it. Food, water, a damn radio…keep going. You’re gonna take a left up here where the road turns back.” 

You do as he directs and after what seems like another half hour, you see the trees open up to reveal a small cabin in a clearing. It looks deserted, with neither cars nor lights, no sign of life at all, to be seen. 

“Hey, go ahead and get the car turned around. We might have to tear outta here if Jacob’s people get too close.” 

“Jacob?” you ask. It’s the first he’s said in the way of naming whatever he’s been running from. “Who’s Jacob? Why does he have people?” 

The best you can figure is that this guy got caught up busting a drug ring or illegal moose trafficking or who knows what, you don’t care. Why the hell had you not kept driving and dumped this guy at a hospital or… 

Shit. _Too late now._

You pull the car around without another word, leaving it under the cover of the trees without Staci or his paranoia having to tell you to do it. He all but scrambles out of the car, a blur of limbs and muttered worries. 

“Come on, hurry up.” 

As you watch him drag himself toward the cabin, it occurs to you that you could just leave him. Just peel out of here and go back the way you came. When you don’t follow, Staci stops and turns back. He regards you with more clarity than you’ve seen from him so far, looking back in the direction of the main road. 

“Hey…” he starts carefully, “You want to go, I get that, I do. But don’t do it tonight, alright? You can’t do it tonight. They’ve got people out looking for me and...for someone else. Wait ‘til daylight. There will be a few more people on the road.” 

His words make sense, not that you necessarily believe him, and he sounds less like a lunatic than he had earlier. You strangle the wheel a few moments longer as you hesitate. The guy is swaying on his feet and you can’t be too sure he’ll even make it to the door if you leave him behind. You remember the feeling you’d had earlier that he’d be as good as dead if you didn’t help him. His fate feels heavy and unwelcome beneath your palms and you wonder if he feels anything similar in regards to your own. With a sigh, you step out of the car. 

“Good,” his relief seems genuine, “Good. You’re smart. That’s good.” 

Something tells you that he doesn’t mean to stumble towards you like he does, and you rush forward to steady him, catching him around the chest. 

“Let’s get you inside,” you say. When you pull one arm away from his side, your other still looped around his back, you notice that it’s newly cold against the night air. Wet, you realize, feeling the strange slickness from your wrist to your elbow. You already know before you look what you will see. You can smell it, pungent and coppery, and in the darkness, it looks more like ink against your skin. 

“Hey, hey...you good?” You try to steady him and feel the weight of his palms come down against your shoulders. “Stay with me, Staci.” 

His name strengthens him. There’s not much too him but lean muscle, but he’s heavy and pulling you down. His next breath rattles in his chest. 

“Yeah...okay.” 

Together, you struggle up the stairs to the door. 

“You know where they keep a key?” 

Staci grits his teeth and nods. “There’s an old truck up on blocks in the back. It’s in one of those fake rocks next to one of ‘em. Under the fender, I think.” 

You find out after some blind searching that the hideaway rock is tucked instead under the left back concrete block. By the time you make it back around front, the key is in your hand, not that it matters, because you’re pretty sure Staci Pratt has gone and died after all. He’s too still, slumped over with his legs kicked out in front of the door. 

You can’t quite bring yourself to climb the steps again and you call out quietly, “Deputy Pratt?” 

He lifts his head and there a ghost of surprise on his face. He blinks at you and if you’re not imagining things, his chin quivers like he’s trying to swallow down the relief at seeing you standing there with a key in your hand. Wherever he had expected to be upon coming back to his senses, it wasn’t on a porch in the middle of the woods, looking at a woman in an oversized barn coat and road trip clothes. 

You hurry up the stairs, stepping over Staci’s legs, and open the door. 

He says something, has maybe told you not to turn on the light, and that’s fine. You’ve figured it out at this point. 

“Come on,” you say, kneeling down to slip his arms around you, “You’ve got to help me.” 

The noise that comes from his throat as he heaves himself up against you sounds too wet. The radio can wait. His injuries need to be looked at now. 

“Bathroom’s through there,” he says, no doubt coming to the same realization you have. He probably feels it a lot worse than you. The cabin isn’t large but the effort it takes to navigate the dark hallway with Staci hanging off you certainly makes it feel that way. 

“Here,” he tells you and you swing him into the room to your left. He sinks down on the covered toilet with a groan. 

“Weak...I feel _weak_.” 

Taking your phone from your pocket, you turn on its flashlight and prop it against the wall by the sink. The bathroom is small enough that the light touches all the corners. Thankfully, there’s no window, though the room is as ugly as you’d thought it would be, with wood walls and cheap blue linoleum. But as long as there’s a first aid kit to be found, you won’t complain. 

“Linen closet,” Staci seems to have read your mind again, “Unless Bill’s moved it.” 

“Sit tight.” 

When you find it, it’s less a first aid kit and more a damned collapsible ambulance. You dump out bandages and swabs, ointments, a suture kit and hospital’s share of other things onto the counter. This is something you can do, you tell yourself, breathing deeply. 

_It’ll be fine._ You look at Staci slouched back between the shower and toilet. _Just fine…_

“Hey,” you reach for him, putting your hands against his cheeks to turn his head towards you, “I’m going to get your shirt off, alright? Is that okay?” 

“What?” 

“Your shirt,” you repeat. You don’t know what has been done to this guy and you’re not about to go pulling at his clothes without him understanding first. 

Uncertainty makes little cracks in his features as he considers your words. Fear wouldn’t be a stretch, you think, watching him carefully. _Okay…_ You kneel down in front of him, wedged between his knees and the wall just behind you. 

“Staci, I’m not going to hurt you, alright? I trusted you,” you say and place your hands over his, “I need you to trust me now. We’re going to get you cleaned up and then we’re going to find that radio. I’m going to help you, I promise.” 

He begins to toe off his boots. 

“I...have to wash…” 

You don’t think he means just the dirt. He needs to get rid of all of it, as best he can, down to his nail beds if he has to. You don’t know who Jacob is or what he’s done, but Staci Pratt has been through something and it’s _on_ him, inside of him. 

He gets to his feet and passes his clothes to you. The fabric is stiff with filth and you’ll have to make it a point to look for something clean while he washes. You can’t quite breathe when you see the extent of the damage done to him. You can’t tell where the grime ends and the bruises begin, but he’s dark with it. From his ankles to his shoulders, he looks like someone has taken a baseball bat to him. 

“Jesus Christ…” It slips out on a breath before you can stop it. He doesn’t meet your eyes, his dark hair slipping down as he turns his face away. You don’t know him, but you had only just promised that you wouldn’t hurt him. You swallow and place a hand over his wrist. 

“You’re going to be okay.” 

Neither one of you believes it. 

The water is lukewarm at best when you help him into the shower. He doesn’t stay on his feet for long and slips down so that the water falls against his face and chest. You promise that you’ll be back, that you’re going to find some clothes for him and a towel, but he catches your hand. His grip is startlingly tight and it draws you back. He has something that needs saying but he can’t find the words and a moment later, he releases you, his hand falling against the edge of the tub. You don’t have the heart to leave him alone in the dark, so you let your phone remain in its spot on the counter. 

The same linen closet in which you’d found the first aid kit also contains spare towels and the second of the two bedrooms at the back of the cabin provides an oversized flannel shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. In the bathroom, Staci hasn’t moved, his head resting between his knees, the water sloughing off his hair and shoulders. Most of the filth is caked on and won’t come off without scrubbing. 

“Staci?” you call gently. “I found some clean clothes for you.” 

You hesitate at the door. It seems your voice has drawn him out of whatever hole he’d been in as he looks up at you. The phone’s light is harsh against features that are sharper than you’d realized at first - he looks like every high school jock you’d ever had a crush on, maybe just a little out of his prime, but there’s something that is neither unpleasant nor unkind about his face. He’s younger than you’d thought and somehow that makes the ache in your stomach twist just a little tighter. 

You place the clothes on the back of the commode. 

“Do you...need help?” 

He won’t meet your eyes as he nods. 

Sitting down beside him, you reach for the bar of soap on the edge of the tub. It’s dried out and cracked, but if Staci cares at all, he doesn’t say as much. 

“I’m going to start with your back,” you say, “Tell me if something hurts and I’ll stop, okay?” 

When he says nothing, you touch his arm. “Hey, if it hurts, you say so -” 

“He punishes the weak,” he says quietly, his words muffled by the spray of water, “This won’t hurt.” 

That knot in your stomach turns over on itself. 

By the time the water is too cold to continue, you’ve cleaned what you could from him. If he feels violated from your hands on him, he doesn’t show it. He never shies away, never flinches, just lets you run the soap from his back and chest to his feet. You keep your eyes and hands averted from any place that might be too personal. He’s clean enough now to help ward off any infection. 

“Alright, that’s the hard part,” you say, cutting off the water and passing him the towel, “Now, just call me Doctor and say ‘ah.’” 

Staci doesn’t smile, but the muscles beneath your palms ease in the minutes that follow. You put a dent in the medical supplies and by the time you’re finished, Staci is half-wrapped in bandages and gauze. 

You grin at him in one of the rare moments he meets your eyes. 

“You look like Boris Karloff,” you say and this time, he does smile. 

“Never liked that movie,” he admits quietly, “The other one was better.” 

You stand and reach around him to pass him the clean shirt. He buttons it himself and his hands are steadier than you’ve seen them. 

“You’re not wrong. Now, want to go play hero and mash some monsters, Deputy Pratt?” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “I want to run.” 

Yeah, you get the feeling. Maybe you should have been gone by now. But you don’t tell him that, shrugging, and you hope he knows you mean it when you say, “We can do that too.” 


	2. Part Two

Staci is keen on finding that radio for the amount of time it takes him to get from the one end of the bathroom to the other. You estimate it at about three steps, watching him closely. Cleanliness and bandages only go so far in helping him feel any better and do very little once the exhaustion sets in. 

“Hey,” you catch his arm as he braces against the door, “maybe you should, I don’t know, rest? The bed back there looks clean.” 

“No, I -” 

“A radio isn’t going to get up and walk off. Besides, I’ve been driving since before Missoula and I -” Whatever you were going to say doesn’t make it past your lips. You’re tired? One look at the man in front of you and you feel embarrassed just thinking it. 

“Look,” you try again, “I don’t think you’re going to bleed to death for the time being, but are you sure you don’t want me to drive you -” 

Staci pulls out of your grip, but seems reluctant to leave the sturdiness of the doorframe. 

“We’re not safe here,” he says. 

You’re not safe here. You’re not safe on the road. As it goes, you’re pretty sure Staci would say you weren’t safe if you were both in a locked box on the other side of the country. 

“I can stay up,” you offer, “ _if_ you want to stay. Just tell me what to be on the lookout for.” 

Suddenly, he’s standing much closer than he had been, nearly chest to chest and looking down into your eyes. 

“ _Everything_.” 

You feel the word as much as you hear it and it upsets what little footing you’ve managed to find in the situation. The full weight of the night you’ve had settles in on you now that you’ve slowed down long enough to notice. You are the one who looks away this time, though you can feel Staci’s eyes on you as you push yourself from the door. 

“I don’t understand,” you say quietly. “My phone signal isn’t any better now than it was up there. I haven’t seen any cars. No lights...and _you..._ you...” 

This is his fault. You don’t know him. You don’t want to know him. You _wanted_ to be in Idaho by now, drinking burnt coffee at a neon diner, not holed up in a cabin for an as of yet unexplained reason. But when you turn on him, Staci’s downturned face still has cuts that are going to scar once they finally heal, his ribs are broken, you’re pretty sure, and whatever weakness he keeps mumbling about is going to take a better therapist than he can probably afford on a deputy’s salary. 

He looks sorry that he’s provoked you. His eyes are at your feet and something about the way he’s standing makes him look as if he’s braced for a blow to fall. It’s all too much. He’s too much, whoever he is, whatever trouble he’s in. You’ve bathed him, bandaged his wounds, and now? Now you just want to leave. It won’t take sixty seconds to get to your car and be gone. 

The shy brush of fingertips against your hand keeps you from taking the first step; he’s reaching for you because he can’t reach for anyone else. A promise broken to a stranger would be such a small thing, yet you can’t bring yourself to pull your hand from his. Your life had been touched with the same tragedies everybody’s had but whatever was happening to this man, whether it was mostly in his head or not, wasn’t something a person should face alone. One way or another, he needed help and if you left him, you’d lose sleep over it the rest of your life. 

Saying much else has every chance of spooking him, so you hold his hand a little tighter and turn back toward the bedrooms. The one you had searched earlier has a made bed and a single curtained window. It’ll do, even if it does belong to a stranger. 

“I’m going to get my phone charger from the car,” you tell him as he eases down on the mattress, “I’m coming back.” 

Staci’s grip on your hand loosens when you give his own a squeeze. He moves to lay back, settling against the headboard and slowly dragging his feet onto the comforter. Tugging the bedclothes from under him feels like entirely too large a task in that moment, so you reach across him and pull the far corner of the sheets to drape across his legs. He lets you, saying nothing, and from the way his eyelids droop, you know he won’t be awake by the time you get back to the room. 

You tell him quietly, “Get some rest. You’re not alone, alright?” 

The house and surrounding woods are quiet, though not unnaturally so, and the gentle reverb of night sounds through the trees sets you at ease. The road is a fair distance away and when you listen, you hear no traffic. Something seems innately wrong in making a point to listen for footsteps and voices, but that’s what you do, and the act of it unsettles you more than the prospect of actually hearing anything. Having done it seems an awful like an admission that Staci and his paranoia are right. After a few minutes, you take your chances and get your charger from the car, along with the small overnight bag you had brought with you. A few extra clothes, granola bars, and the other odds and ends won’t help you, but you feel better with them slung over your shoulder. 

With Staci asleep inside, you take the opportunity to use what battery you have left and dial the emergency number. The call fails just as it had before and with a frown, you hang up, less disappointed than you are wary. You’re not sure that you’ve seen a single signal bar since you crossed into Hope County. Even your GPS app had lost its location half an hour before the wayward deputy had ever come crashing into your atmosphere. 

Your hand is on the door when you hear the first out of place sound that stops you dead in your tracks. It’s far away, probably miles in these hills, and sounds like fireworks going off. But the noise is just slightly too sharp with too rapid a succession to be rockets bursting. Intermittently for the next thirty seconds, there are volleys of pops and booms and then, all too tellingly, the silence returns. 

Slipping inside, you lock the door and fix the deadbolt behind you. Several of the windows are unlocked, you discover, and you flip each latch into place from room to room. When the cabin is finally on lockdown, you return to the bedroom to find Staci snoring soundly, the covers snared under his chin. His hair has fallen into his face but you’re not going to be the one to tuck it back. Images of him jolting awake at your touch and walloping you a few good times in fright stop you cold. Now that you can breathe finally, you feel tired, heavy in a way you haven’t been in a long time. The bedroom across the hall is tempting, but what you’re chalking up to strong moral fiber keeps you in the room with Staci, while good sense, rather than decorum or chastity, keeps you from stealing the spot next to him. After swiping one of the pillows, you stretch out on the bare floor at the foot of the bed. 

……………………………………. 

The next morning, you wake to find pale blue light peeking in through the curtains. It had been cold during the night and more than once, chills had woken you. Staci, you observe enviously, is still asleep on the bed and in that brief moment, you’re grateful for it. He needed it, that much couldn’t be argued no matter how spiteful you were feeling, but it only takes you a moment to imagine the state he might have been in had he awoke to discover that no one was listening out for...whatever he thought needed listening out for. 

With a yawn, you reach for the phone charging nearby. There is still no service and the clock reads a horrible six-fifteen. Sitting up, you decide to make an attempt at feeling human and quietly dig your kit from the overnight bag. After splashing some water on your face and brushing your teeth, you feel motivated enough for a look around. The cabin has a rustic quality you may have appreciated had the situation been different and the decor a little less Hunter’s Monthly. It’s clean, at least, and well-cared for, an observation that makes you wonder why no one is present. Staci had seemed familiar with the family and, as manic as he was, the fact that he hadn’t been concerned about possibly interrupting them assuaged your worries somewhat. 

Finding his radio involves little more than looking over to the far corner of the room. It’s red and too archaic for your comfort, with papers and - wouldn’t you know - a few old issues of Invent & Survive scattered around it. 

The idea of raiding the kitchen when you’ve already commandeered the first aid kit and other rooms doesn’t sit well with you, especially given that you’ve got a few granola bars stashed in your bag. However, you decide that no decent human would be opposed to someone in distress making a pot of coffee. It will do Staci good to have something familiar when he wakes, so you set to searching the pantry and find an opened can of off-brand grounds on one of the shelves. 

Ten minutes later, the cabin smells like any other morning. It must wake Staci, because you hear the bed springs squeak and a few moments later, the scuff of boots on the floor follows. He appears in the narrow hallway by the time you have two cups in your hands. 

_Looks like a different man._

He does look better, though the brief rest had done little to chase away the deep blue beneath his eyes. 

“Good morning,” you greet him as you pass him one of the cups. 

He takes a deep breath and he must not mind the bitterness because you catch the slightest twitch at the corners of his lips. 

“Morning.” 

You motion to the desk across the room with your free hand. 

“Found your radio.” 

The mouthful of hot coffee is the only thing that deters him from grinning. Soon, he’s seated in front of it, fiddling with the knobs and dials in between sips. You refill his cup when it’s empty and he’s on the verge of thanking you when a voice crackles through speaker. 

“ - _tail Pirate Radio, courtesy of awesome. And a solid fuck you and your horses to any Peggies listening out there. Now, here we are with another classic_ -” 

“Peggies? Is that what he said?” you ask, leaning over Staci to listen more closely. “What is that?” 

It sounds like some kind of football rivalry taken too seriously. But something, and maybe it’s just gunfire in the night and a traumatized backwater cop, tells you that’s not quite it. Staci shushes you, sitting his coffee cup down, and continues to listen. The only thing blaring from the radio now is 90’s era metal and within moments Staci winces and hurriedly turns the volume down. 

You look down at him, scowling. 

“Explain _now_ or no more coffee.” 

The threat isn’t what he must have expected to hear given your expression. His eyes had widened - near frightened, you noticed a beat too late - but he settles back in his seat and takes a few deep breaths. He must have caught himself, which would be a good sign if you didn’t feel so damned bad about it. You hadn’t meant to startle him, hadn’t even considered that you might, and you lift your hands from the back of his chair, chagrined. 

“Let me get you some more,” you offer and quietly take his near-empty cup to be refilled. When you return, you expect Staci to reach for it, but instead it’s your wrist he places his hand atop in what you suspect is an to remind himself. 

“Thanks,” he says, “Haven’t had coffee in... weeks.” He shakes his head. “I think it’s been weeks.” 

“Staci,” you begin, leaning back against the desk so that you can look at him, “Can you tell me what’s happening? You don’t have to, but I’ll feel better knowing.” 

Bitter laughter cuts up from his throat. 

“You really won’t,” he says, “You’ll run. You might even make it.” Looking away, his voice softens. “Or you might not.” 

“Listen, tall-dark-and-ominous, one way or the other, you are going to have to give me something. Even if it’s just directions. When and where are we going? A hospital? The police station -” 

“ _No_ ,” Staci stands and is suddenly too close in the small space between the chair and the desk. You can still smell the faint scent of blood on him, as if his wounds had wept during the night. The edge of the desk digs uncomfortably into the small of your back as you press yourself away, out of his space. 

“You haven’t been _listening_ ,” he hisses, his arms coming down on either side of you, “We - _they_ , they got to us, to the Sheriff’s Department. There is no Sheriff’s Department anymore, hasn’t been for weeks.” 

“Staci -” 

“We walked right into Joseph’s trap and our own people - my _friends_ \- they let us. God,” he heaves out the title through teeth clenched so tightly they might crack, “ _God_ wanted to teach us a lesson. We needed to be taught. We needed to understand -” 

For the first time, a genuine fear sets in bone-deep. It doesn’t creep or crawl or linger, it _sweeps_ up the base of your spine and snatches around your throat. The dark of Staci’s eyes is lost again amid that pale, frightened white. 

You should have run a long time ago. 

The suddenness with which you break away startles him and you manage to slip past one arm as you dart for the door. Your phone, your keys, all of it is in the back bedroom and there’s only a split second in which to decide if you can risk going for them - 

“Wait,” Staci calls after you, “Wait! Please, just - please wait.” 

He doesn’t take a step towards you and a glance over your shoulder shows you more clearly than you care to see that the rabid fear that had been on his face has been replaced by something softer - you know that look, though you’ve never seen it raw like it is now. He’s afraid of being left alone. For better or worse, he’s relying on you. It’s a dangerous game to play with a stranger and it sets you teetering on a knife’s edge. 

Staci stammers over his next words, worrying at a knuckle with his teeth as you both wait out what is to come next. 

“Joseph Seed. Eden’s Gate. Have you...have you heard about them?” he asks. 

You shake your head. 

“Crazy doomsday sect that moved out here a while ago. Started off harmless enough. Joseph, he’s the founder. Claims he sees visions from God. But his brothers…” Staci pauses and your stomach turns when you notice a trail of red running over the knuckle he’s set against his teeth. “His brothers are the ones getting their hands dirty. They bought up nearly the whole county. Lured, _trapped_ , entire congregations from our churches. After a while, they even managed to block the damn cell signals in the county. No calls for help, no word to the outside. And now? Now, Joseph’s untouchable. We tried to take him down, us and the FBI, and... goddamnit.” 

For a moment you think he’ll stop. You half wish he would because your heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of your ears. But Staci goes on. 

“They _took_ us. The things they did...things they made me do…I saw my chance to run last night and I took it. I went one way and my friend, one of the other deputies - she went the other.” 

When he finally stops, you’ve taken a few slow steps toward him. He notices, must be grateful that you aren’t running anymore, and sinks back down in the chair with a shuddering breath. 

“You drove right into a warzone and didn’t even know it,” he says. “We tried putting up signs when things were getting bad. The Peggies - that’s what we call them - they just took ‘em down.” 

If you had known half of what he’s just told you, you would have asked your next question the moment he first got in your car. 

“How do I get out of here?” 

Staci looks at you sadly and, in his eyes, there’s a glimpse of the man he must have been before all this. 

“I don’t know that you can, sweetheart.” 

“Dying in Crazytown, Montana is…like the last thing on my bucket list.” You take another step closer and offer him a half-hearted smile when he glances your way. “I just wanted to see some Idaho...potatoes...and stuff. Maybe a grizzly bear.” 

He cracks a smile, one that’s out of practice and unsteady. 

“Hope County wasn’t always bad,” he says, “I, I have a hard time remembering that, you know?” 

You try and laugh. It hardly works. 

“What, you mean Montana wild men weren’t always sprinting out in front of women’s cars in the middle of the night?” 

Staci looks down at his boots, shaking his head. When his eyes cut back up at you, that grin doesn’t seem quite as fragile. 

“You’d be surprised. Things get real exciting here on a full moon.” He sighs at that and sets back in the chair, sobering quickly. “We’re not going anywhere until I get somebody on this radio.” 

“Maybe...and this is just an idea,” you paused, thinking. A thought had occurred to you as he drew your attention back to mess of dials and switches. If he was being hunted by...whoever, then there was every chance they would be monitoring the stations trying to locate him, likely assuming he’d do exactly what he intended on doing. “What if I put the call out? People won’t know my voice. They’ll be looking out for a man’s.” 

“And say what?” 

“I don’t know.” What would you say? “What were you planning on saying?” 

Staci looks at you thoughtfully. “I was gonna see who was still holding out. See if maybe Fall’s End is hanging on. I heard whispers back at,” his teeth clack shut, “ _back_ and it seemed like the rookie was giving John hell in the valley for a while. Father Jeffries was holding out there, last I heard.” 

“Alright then,” you say with a nod. You drag over one of the chairs from the kitchen table nearby and set it down beside Staci’s. “Let’s do this.” 

………………………….. 

Father Jeffries _was_ holding out. So was a woman named Mary May, who had been the one to answer the call you’d issued over the radio. At Staci’s own urging, you hadn’t mentioned him, only that you were in danger and looking for a safe place. The town of Fall’s End was safe enough, Mary May had told you, and if you could get there, you’d stand the best chance at “riding out the storm,” as she had put it. 

Staci had determined that you would drive as far as you were able, though the more you watched him, the less convinced you were that he believed you would make it. You were nearly ready to leave, calling out to him from the kitchen, when you heard a heavy, dull thud against one of the walls in the back. Rushing in, you find him wedged between the mattress and box spring, the former pushed back and cattycornered against the far side of the room. He fishes around blindly for a moment longer before pity overcomes you and you lean over him to lift the mattress out of the way. 

With a muffled ‘gotcha,’ Staci wriggles free, turning to grin up at you from the floor and showing off the snubnose .38 he had just liberated. 

“Is it loaded?” you ask. 

He opens the cylinder and from what you can see, your question is answered. The owners of the cabin were well-prepared and you weren’t going to argue about it in the given situation. 

Staci holds out his hand, his fingers closing around your forearm as you haul him up. Standing taller than he had the night before, a fact for which you were increasingly appreciative, he could have rested his chin on the top your head if he were of a mind and for a moment, empowered maybe by the gun in his hand, you think he might. His energy seems barely contained, bouncing between a nervousness and an almost frenetic excitement. 

“Found this in the bedside table,” he says, shoving a hand into his back pocket and producing what looks to you like a military-issue knife. _Or dagger,_ you suppose, though dagger connotes an entirely too violent line of thought. 

“It’ll clip on the waist of your jeans. Here.” 

Those twitchy, nervous fingers lift up one edge of your shirt and fiddle with the sheath’s clip long enough for you to notice that his hands are warm. He pulls away finally, tucking your hem down over the knife. 

“With your coat on, nobody’ll see it. Don’t you hesitate to use it, okay?” Next thing you know, those warm hands are squeezing at your shoulders. “If shots are fire, you get down and stay down. But if somebody comes after you, you need to either kill them or give them a reason to kill you because you don’t want them to take you.” He shakes you gently to make his point, sending hair into your eyes. He leans down until he’s eye-level with you and the loose hair must annoy him, because he brushes it back until he can see you clearly. 

His fingers flex once more as he tells you, “Trust me.” 

God help you, but maybe you do. 

Five minutes later, the cabin is in your rearview. 

Hoping to break the silence that had settled over the pair of you, you ask him, “How far is it to town?” 

“ _Fuck_.” 

You glance at him. “What? What is it?” 

“They might have roadblocks -” 

“Roadblocks?” The word isn’t one you’ve had to use often in your life. “ _Roadblocks_?” 

“I should’ve driven -” 

“No, no, you shouldn’t have. We’re not Deputy Pratting our way through -” 

“Might have to,” he says, “Probably have to, yeah.” 

Turning back to the road, you groan. 

“Fuck.” 

A few minutes later, the green nose of a small car careens around the corner ahead, swerving briefly into your lane before righting itself. Instinctively, you tense. Anybody could be driving it and if this Eden’s Gate thing is as widespread as Staci claims, then this could one of them. It’s only as the car comes nearer that you see the spray-painted lettering across the hood and side. 

“Sinner,” you read aloud as it passes. “Is that…?” 

Staci nods grimly. 

“Yeah, they started tagging people’s property when folks wouldn’t pony up. Marking them. Those were the lucky ones. Some others they just dragged out of their homes and carried off.” 

His earlier idea doesn’t seem so ridiculous now. Swallowing your pride - maybe your good sense, too - you ask, “What were you saying about driving through the roadblocks?” 

“Floor it. Don’t slow down. If folks have retaken Fall’s End, the Peggies won’t follow us into town.” 

“Well, that’s just _peachy_.” 

The change that comes over Staci is one you feel before you’re able to see it. He tenses suddenly, like a dog that’s decided to bite, and from the corner of your eye you see his head snap toward you. 

“W-what did you say?” 

It’s like stepping out onto a frozen lake - you can _feel_ it. Something’s gone wrong and it’s making the hair on your arms stand up. You chance a look at him, see that he’s angled toward you, one hand compulsively flexing over his thigh and then into a fist again. He had tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and makes no move to reach for it. 

“Staci?” By some blessing, you manage to keep your voice steady. Softly, you say his name again and then a third time. “What’s the matter?” 

“I…” he hesitates, blinking rapidly, “I’m alright.” Relaxing in his seat once more, he repeats himself and if either of you believes it or doesn’t, it goes unspoken. 

A sign reading ‘Fall’s End - 17 miles’ sets you at ease when you pass it a few minutes later. 

“Hey look,” Staci no doubt knows his way around the county, but you feel obligated to point out the finish line anyway, “That’s not too far.” 

“Too far. These hills...they make it hard to get anywhere in a hurry.” 

Smiling, you brave a squeeze of his shoulder. 

“Close your eyes and don’t look at the speedometer, Officer.” 

The pair of you manage to cover about a third of that distance before the roadblock comes into view. It seems surreal, some third-world, drug cartel stunt that shouldn’t be possible here. Armored trucks, white with painted symbols you can only assume belong to the cult, are pulled nose to nose across the lanes. They’ve sandbagged barriers, behind which stand two armed.. _._ fucking _paramilitary_ soldiers, you realize. Your imagination had been generous, conjuring up images of angry farmers with pitchforks and their grandfathers’ service weapons. On the left-hand side, the space in between the truck and the shoulder has been barricaded. The right-hand side is a very narrow strip of uneven dirt edged by a steep drop off into the valley below. 

“Staci?” 

But the deputy has already straightened in his seat and is scowling over the dashboard. He’s too still, you think, with the same rigid line of muscle you’ve seen in frightened animals trying to decide which way to run. 

“Ease off,” he says quietly. You take your foot off the gas; the roadblock is a few hundred yards ahead yet and you both need time to consider. 

“When I tell you, floor it. You’re gonna have to go to the right, behind the truck. Don’t slow down, whatever happens.” 

Okay. Okay. You can do that. You’ve never done it before, certainly never thought you’d be doing anything like what he’s suggesting, but then again, you never thought you’d face an armed cultist roadblock. 

As an afterthought, you tell him, “Buckle up.” 

Just in case. 

You’re less than a hundred yards from the barricade when Staci tells you to step on it. The cultists - _Peggies_ , you remind yourself - are closing ranks, guns in hand, prepared for you to stop. You don’t and by the time you maneuver your car to slide behind the back of the rightmost truck, you’ve topped sixty. To your right, Staci looks frightened, but there’s something primed and dangerous about him, an edge that seems to be sharpening. Over the rumble of tires hitting dirt, he says something about culling the weak and you know you’ll never dare ask him to elaborate. 

Steel on steel rocks the car as your fender clips the back of the truck, nearly snatching the wheel from your hands. But it’s the first burst of gunfire that causes you to flinch and duck your head out of instinct. Jerking, you nearly cut the wheel too far to the right and the tires rattle against the jagged edge that slides off into the ravine below. Staci’s hand whips out, catches the wheel, and rights it before coming down to rest over your knee. The touch is an anchor for the both of you and your breath comes easier for it. 

It doesn’t seem quite real when your car emerges from behind the truck, spitting gravel and dust. 

“Your next right,” Staci tells you as he glances back over his shoulder, “ _Shit_.” 

He can curse all he wants to - your heart’s pounding too loudly in your ears for you to notice, but when he reaches for the .38 in the band of his jeans, you force yourself to look away. The only thing looking behind you will cause is panic - more panic - so you force your eyes to the road ahead and watch for the next chance to turn. 

“It’s a straight shot to Fall’s End once you turn. Drive like hell.” 

You hear the click of his seatbelt before you can answer him. 

“What are you doing?” 

But Staci is already clambering from the front and into the back of the car, gun in hand. Seconds drag on and you hear the telling hiss of the back driver’s side window. 

You’d known he was crazy. He’d been crazy from the moment you’d met him. But enough is enough. 

“Staci!” you snarl, “Get back in the car! Staci Pratt, I swear to - _Christ_!” 

The ring of his first shot is nearly lost over the pull of rubber against asphalt. If one of you gets killed by some crazy cult, it’s not going to be because you didn’t drive fast enough. Your foot meets the floorboard just as the sign directing you to Fall’s End comes into view. 

“Staci, I have to turn. Hold on!” 

The car slides as you hit the brakes, only to stomp on the gas the moment the front end is pointed in the right direction. Something in the ballpark of maniacal laughter gets lost in the wind as Staci pounds the roof of the car. He shuts up a moment later, ducking back inside as the pursuing truck takes the chance to return fire. Frankly, you had no idea if your car could even push one hundred miles an hour, but the road is straight and if there was ever a time for you to find out, it’s now. 

Turns out, it can and does. Staci, for all his cowboy stuntmanship, has the good sense to crawl back in the car as soon as you start to gain some distance from the truck. 

“They’re backing off,” he says with a bark of disbelieving laughter, “Fall’s End is just up ahead.” 

You can see it. Rising up from between the fields on either side of the road. It’s small, hardly a town at all, but if it scares cultists off your ass, you’ll take it. The closer it gets, the more animated Staci becomes. He practically howls, reaching over your shoulder to slam his fist against the car horn in what might have been a rendition of a bad country song. It’s enough to draw the attention of the locals. Like ants in the distance, growing bigger by the second, they rush out into the street and you don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified at the sight of more weapons. Glancing in the rearview mirror, the truck following you has slowed to a stop, those inside unwilling to press the chase any further. 

“Hail Mary, we made it!” Staci honks the horn again for good measure before settling between the two headrests to hover above you. He smiles at you, genuinely this time, broad and full of teeth and cheek, and the bruises between his eyes seem suddenly much less garish. “Damn girl, I didn’t think you could do it.” 

You take a wild swat at him from the front seat. 

“Fuck you, Staci Pratt. Crazy...stupid...trigger-happy - fuck you!” 

You settle back into your seat with a huff and wait for your heart to stop its marathon sprint. The people of Fall’s End ease off their triggers when they realize that your car isn’t a threat and you wonder if after you had called, Mary May had spread the word that someone would be making a break for the town. 

The glowing neon sign of what is essentially everything one could ever want from a rural bar seems like a good place to finally, _finally_ stop. Staci is already up and out of the car by the time you’ve put it in park. Of all the things you expect him to do - fall to his knees, take a few breaths, or...anything else really - you’ve only just unfastened your seatbelt when he flings open your door and hauls you out. Hands under your knees and back, he spins you around and sets you gracelessly on the ground with a breathless laugh. 

“I didn’t think,” the laughter, maybe something else, chokes him, “I knew I wouldn’t see this place again.” 

The world is still spinning, but your hand finds his easily enough. 

“Hey, you made it.” 

The weight of it settles on him then - all of it, his survival, his injuries, _yours_...and it’s not quite a smile this time that he offers you. It’s a small, sad look but it doesn’t leave you empty. It won’t seem right if he thanks you, not when you had come so close to leaving him behind a few times over. Not after all you’ve seen. There was such a thing as peering too far behind the curtain and while you hadn’t had a choice, something tells you he’ll never quite forget the rawness you’d witnessed. With the immediate danger passed, the realization must come to him all at once. 

He can’t thank you. 

You don’t really want him to. 

But his hand is warm as it slides against the back of your neck and rests there, drawing you into his chest, and his cheek atop your hair feels enough like gratitude, like the _intimacy_ of having lived, that you can breathe deeply for the first time since crossing Hope County lines. You hope he doesn’t mind you wrapping your arms around his waist, but he doesn’t pull away, and the pair of you stay that way until a woman’s voice sounds out from the steps of the bar. 

“Well I’ll be damned. That you, Deputy Pratt?” 

Staci turns you loose but you can still feel the press of him at your back as you turn to look. The woman is young, too young for the look in her eyes, but she seems relieved to see a few more survivors in Fall’s End. 

“We’d almost given you up for dead,” she tells him, stepping down onto the sidewalk. Smiling at you, she holds out her hand. “You must be the one from the radio this morning. Mary May Fairgrave.” 

Her grip is tough and weathered as you introduce yourself. 

“Didn’t know you’d be returning our lost law enforcement official. Thank you for that.” 

You smile up at Staci and when he smiles back, you shrug. 

“He offered to pay for gas.” 


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I finished something. 
> 
> This chapter is rated There's Sex.
> 
> Far Cry 5 requests open on my tumblr. Come say hi:  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/freshneverfrozen

Three days spent in Fall’s End has given you time enough to gain a better understanding of what you had stumbled into through sheer dumb luck. You’ve overheard three broadcasts in as many days by a psychotic televangelist and for the life of you, you can’t figure out why the National Guard isn’t here to clean house. Residents wear guns outside their belts to walk across the street. Even the priest from the church at the end of the block is armed and spends most of his time in a Kevlar vest. You had found yourself in the sort of unbelievable story that people sat back and gaped at post happy-hour. 

“I don’t get it,” you tell Staci, settling down beside him at a corner table in the Spread Eagle. Mary May brings you a beer, smiling when she hands it to you. You appreciate the cold glass against your hand; you’re starting to appreciate _a lot_ of things. Small things you hadn’t noticed before. Breezes, smiles on strangers’ faces...little things that could all be gone so easily. 

Staci makes a noise of agreement. He’s rarely not been at your side or Father Jerome’s these past few days and in an odd way, you’ve come to appreciate that too. 

“We’re not that lucky,” he says quietly. The music in the bar isn’t so loud that you can’t hear him. It’s pleasant background noise that would feel almost normal if there were more people standing around. But the bar is empty save for you and Staci. Mary May and her do-it-all cook are huddled together in the kitchen, their presence making things a little less surreal. 

Staci snatches up the beer he’s been nursing and tips it back, wincing as he swallows. It gives him the punch he needs to finish what he has to say. 

“If we get out of this, we’re doing it ourselves.” 

“You’re shit company, Staci Pratt,” you say, shaking your head. 

You sink against the stiff wooden back of your chair and look away. Before the chorus of the current song is over, the warmth of Staci’s fingers through the sleeve of your shirt tangles up your chest in a way that hurts. You never mean to be short with him. This situation is hard on everyone and your resentment at being caught up in it, like cancer from secondhand smoke, doesn’t outweigh what he’s been through. You _know_ that and knowing makes you worry your bottom lip until you’re finally able to speak again. 

“Staci,” you lean forward, placing your hand over his wrist and letting it rest there. The skin to skin contact seems to help him, even if the gentleness still shocks him each time you do it. 

“ _You_ got out of that mess you were in. I didn’t get you out. You did it. You survived, even if those assholes didn’t want you to. And now you’re sitting here in this bar surrounded by people who are fighting back, people who have your back. Hard part’s over. You’re not alone anymore.” 

He can’t meet your eyes, but his chin dimples and you know he’s heard you. He’s listened. 

“I... shit,” he turns his wrist over beneath your palm and slides his arm down so that his hand is snug under yours, “You’re a good woman.” 

“And an even better getaway driver,” you say with a laugh. It doesn’t feel right to move your hand from his this time. It’s warm and comfortable and maybe you both need that right now. For the next hour, you watch the light fade beneath the entrance to the bar and talk about things that don’t matter. Staci realizes he’s never asked about you, about where you’re from and who you know, so when he does, you tell him and he grins his way through your life story like it matters. He breaks horses in his free time, you learn, and then he shows you the scars. Turns out he could have gone to college on a rodeo scholarship if he hadn’t broken his shoulder his senior year playing football and as you watch the way his body moves as he talks, you can believe every word. 

There’s a decent man under all the bravado and the doomsaying, one you like more than the others you’ve known, and your heart hurts a little harder when you remember what he’s going to have to go through to get over Eden’s Gate and the things they’ve done. The hate creeps bitterly up the back of your throat as you listen to him talk and you wash it down with the last of your beer. 

“Oh man,” he says when his story finally ends, “I need to walk that drink off. Come on, I wanna show you somethin’.” 

You follow him out the bar and down the street, nearly to the edge of town. 

“It’s always been like this,” Staci’s steps are slow, meandering as he talks, “Even before all this shit went down.” 

The streets are quiet, though a few lights are on as folks keep a stranglehold on what little normality remains available to them. It doesn’t take long to come to a little, flat-faced brick building with bars in the windows and you know without have to read the black and gold lettering on the door that you’ve finally discovered the center of Hope County’s policing operations. 

You take a moment to whistle, no doubt sounding more impressed than you are. It’s probably salt in the wound of anybody who has to work in a place like this. 

“So… you people aren’t just rogue cowboys, hanging those pesky desperados and galloping around on your trusty sidekick, Trigger.” 

Staci throws his head back and laughs, really laughs. 

“Yeah, we’ve upgraded to four-wheel drives. Got three official cars and everything.” He waves you around the back of the building. “Sheriff did keep a cat named Festus though. You know, like from the old show. Damn sorry animal.” 

The back door isn’t barred like the front and Staci’s either found a way in himself since he’s been in town or someone else had taken the liberty in the force’s absence. He flips on the lights when you’re both inside and beneath the buzz of the fluorescent lights, you see that you’ve walked into an emptied armory. There couldn’t have been much here to begin with, just an old metal cabinet with a lock lying broken on the floor nearby and a few overturned boxes. 

Following Staci out to the front, past the cells, it’s evident that this is where he’s been staying since your arrival in town. Mary May had offered you both a place, an offer you’d had no choice but to take, but Staci had turned her down. It had worried you at first, though you understand now that he’d had to come back to something familiar. He’s set up a little fold-out bed between two desks, his own, judging by the nameplate, and a that of a deputy named L. Strother. The room is still dark until he flips on a desk lamp. 

“There’s been police in this building since 1867,” he tells you, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, “I have been told that there was a wooden building that stood here before that but a couple of deputies, uh, set fire to it after a poker match didn’t go their way.” 

You nod and looking around at the walls, 1867 doesn’t seem that far off. 

“Sounds about right for a Hope County deputy,” you say. 

Staci grins and you can’t help but like it. There’s a difference to him in this place, as though he can shake off some of what’s been done to him, and you chalk it up to him feeling at home. The bruises are fading around his eyes and the cut on his cheek is going to leave him rugged in a way that will do him favors if he ever wishes it. You’re not sure that’ll be any time soon or that he’ll ever be able to see those scars without hating them but on the surface, the healing has already begun. 

Staci maneuvers around to the other deputy’s desk and pulls open a drawer. 

“Look here,” he says, “Rookie’s keeping contraband - don’t tell her I went through her stuff. I don’t like to admit it but she’d beat my ass. Don’t tell her that either.” 

He pulls out an older model MP3 and tosses it on the desk with an auxiliary cable. He must think better of letting you believe he’s the type to plunder through women’s stuff, because a beat later, he shrugs and explains, “Nah, she brought this in for Joey’s - our other deputy - her birthday party a while ago. Love these old things. Still got a charge.” 

You sit back and watch him and a minute or so later, Americana is blaring from a little speaker the deputy had stashed away. 

“Not bad,” you concede with a smile, “Better than Mary May’s jukebox.” 

Staci looks pleased and comes to sit beside you on his desk. He watches your feet as they swing to a beat that doesn’t drop quite when you think it should and for several songs, the both of you are content to just enjoy the company. There’s something absurd about listening to someone else’s music in an abandoned police station, but neither of you can change it, and it’s better than waiting for bullets to fly. 

After a while, Staci speaks. 

“I, uh, when you stopped in the road that night, my first reaction was to, I don’t know, it was this kill or be killed, fucked up thought. But the more I looked at you, the more I realized you weren’t one of them and you weren’t really one of us. Honest to God, I didn’t think you’d make it. I looked at you and I thought you were weak.” He swallows hard and presses his shoulder into yours. “Thought you were stupid, taking the chance to patch me up and keep me so close.” 

There’s no malice in his words. They’re heavy in way that isn’t putting the fault on you, like the weight of them is in the self-loathing. What he’s saying is full of quiet blame and vitriol and none of it’s for you. 

“Every cop in the world would tell you what you did was dangerous. You should have left me there,” he pauses and glances at you for a second or two and maybe that’s all he can stand, “You should have, but you didn’t.” 

He’s been broken in a way that isn’t going to ever leave him like he was - you’ll never know the Staci who had sat at this desk. The man at your side is dangerous and there are wires crossed in his head in a bad way, but none of it’s toward you or anyone in this town. He’ll snap and bite like a cornered dog, you’ve seen it and you’re sure you’ll see it again, but his anger is at the hand that had been raised against him. The cult will have to pay for what they’ve done to him and sooner or later, he’ll make sure of it. You hate the idea, hate that you can tell so much about him after so short a time, but you think maybe if it had been you in his shoes, you’d need the same if you were ever going to feel whole again. 

You hope you’re not taking advantage when you reach out and take his hand. It’s different this time, a soft touch that sparks and sets fire to something better left alone. Because the touch of your fingers as they slide between his catches the rise of his chest before he can get the breath out. 

He pushes away from the desk and for a moment you think he’s going to walk away and you’re almost glad, but then he turns a half-step later and presses himself against your knees. His hands cup your jaw, rough with calluses and bruised knuckles, and the kiss that follows is swift enough to chase your breath from you. It’s teeth and tongue and _closer_ , closer like he’s trying to drink you in, holding you to him while his thumbs soothe circles over your cheeks. 

Your own hands seem lost, but you can’t quite focus on where to put them, you just know that you don’t dare hurt him. There are so many bruises - you had seen them and bound them in gauze and bandages he hasn’t changed. 

Staci hasn’t survived so much that the need to breathe has lessened any and he finally pulls back far enough that he can look at you. His eyes are clear, worried and needy, yes, but clear enough that the concern settles and finally rests. You know then what to do with your hands, resting them over his as they warm your jaw. He stills for a beat until you turn your head just enough to press a kiss to one wrist. 

“I like you more than I should,” he says quietly, his words dancing over your lips. 

“Supposedly I helped save your life.” 

It seems only right to remind him, not out of pride or ego, but because maybe that’s just what brought this all on. He’d faced abuse for so long and the first tender hand that comes along is bound to make him feel something. 

His lips twist and it makes a few of the bruises retreat into the shadows of his face. 

“That what it is?” he asks. “If I’d met you a few weeks earlier, I might would’ve asked you to dinner first.” 

“Might have?” 

The green in his eyes dances in the dim lights. 

“Not sayin’ it would’ve been a nice dinner, but it wouldn’t have been the Spread Eagle and I’d have bought it for you.” 

A breathless laugh escapes you. 

“Maybe after,” you say quietly, half-afraid. 

“Definitely after,” he says, “A few dinners even. Some coffee. We’ll go to the rodeo. He...they can’t take normal from me.” 

There’s a swell of warmth in your chest, something like pride that you’re not sure you have a right to feel and can’t quite articulate. It causes you to chase his lips and slide your hands up his arms to the back of his neck to pull him closer. That’s just what you need, you realize, what you both need. Your knees spread wide enough for him to step up to the edge of the desk, his chest to yours. The kisses don’t get any lighter and they don’t get sweeter; they’re desperate and hungry for contact, swallowing down a happenstance connection like air when you’ve both been drowning. 

His lips slide from your mouth to the edge of your jaw, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck as he moves further down. Who’s going to see the marks if he leaves them? Who’s going to care? You gasp at the first and curl your fingers into your palm instead of scraping at his scalp like you want. 

“I like you too much,” he says again, his lips muffled as he worries at the bend of your neck, “This isn’t how - I’d treat you better if I was able. Do this right.” 

You believe him, for what it’s worth. You think he’d take you dinner and show you off with his hand in yours, show up with flowers and coffee, and sing with you to bad music if the world wasn’t all but ending outside. Maybe he does like you too damn much and maybe it is or isn’t because you’d hauled him into your car and scrubbed filth from him like he’d been someone important to you. 

But you can’t change it and neither can he. The worst either of you could do will be to come to your senses after the fact and call it a fling. It won’t change the fact that you’ve been shot at and chased down and Staci’s been at your side the whole time. 

But whatever it is, it feels right looking up at him, his hands in your hair and his taste in your mouth. 

“Make it up to me or don’t,” you tell him when you’re able, “I’ll still be here when it’s over.” 

And then he’s on you again, pulling at your lower lip with his teeth as your hands slip down to the hem of his stolen shirt. You hadn’t dared look before, but he’s slimly muscled and lean like a whip with coarse dark hair that can’t hide the marred skin. It’s better this way; you can see where to touch him, how not to hurt him like they had. His hands pause at your top, worried still to bare you until you’re already lifting it over your head and letting it drop over the corner of his desk. 

He touches you as though he hasn’t touched anybody in a long time, palms flat and fingers light and testing as they run over your ribs and up your back. 

He says something and teeth come down on your shoulder as your hands sweep low over his belly. The ridiculous belt buckle he’d salvaged from his old uniform is cold against your skin and you move your hand away, up to cup his cheek again. A series of wet, sloppy kisses leave you dizzy as he fumbles with the clasp of your bra. You feel the triumphant twist of his lips over yours when he manages to get it loose. 

You stand then, leaving the support of the desk behind in favor of unsteady legs, and shuffle out of your jeans. Staci follows suit, slower than you until you reach for his face again to pull him down, his forehead resting against yours as his breath steadies. 

“Let’s...hey, let’s lay down,” you glance at the small cot, smaller than a twin-sized bed, “You think it’ll hold?” 

“We’ll find out,” he says, the words steadier than you’d thought they’d be. 

He pulls up the cheap fleece blanket that’s been thrown over the thin mattress, not quite hiding behind it, and waits for you lay down. He watches as you arrange yourself, eyes sweeping from your toes up to rest on your face. You pull him close as he tests the cot, one leg up and then the other, and you wrap your arm around his shoulders as his cheek settles over your chest. The fingers of his right hand don’t still as he curves them down your shoulder to the bend of your wrist and back. You think he’s listening to your heartbeat, to the slowing flutter that he’s caused. You’re there together, alive, and showing each other a sort of kindness. He presses a kiss to the center of your chest and trails his lips up to your collarbone and you sigh, ruffling the long dark hair below your chin. Such pretty hair. You hadn’t noticed before and you spare a moment to enjoy the feel of it slipping through your fingers. 

Staci’s attention moves back down, trailing over the curve of one breast. He’s gentler than he had been with your lips, though his teeth still nip and tug until you can’t keep down a gasp of his name. Finally, he tears himself away with a noisy pop, teeth marks glaring at the top of one breast but already fading. He’s straining, you can see it in his eyes when he looks at you, tethered to the edge because he feels like he has to be. 

You decide that he doesn’t and press one leg under his to fully pull him over you. The tip of him catches between your thighs, warmer than the rest of him, and the breath in both your chests catches. 

“I...I don’t -” 

_Have anything with him_ , he means. Sex had probably been the farthest thing from his mind for some time and it was certainly not something you’d planned on when you had crossed county lines. Birth control you had tidily handled and after what he’s been through, you hope he wouldn’t put you at risk for anything else. 

“Are you…” It’s hard to ask with your breath tangled in your throat and the heat of him bearing down over you. 

“Clean,” he nods. 

Hope County is a place for dangerous decisions apparently, but for whatever reason, you _do_ trust Staci Pratt and he trusts you. His fingers brush run over your cheek to push away the hair that’s fallen past your eyes and you smile. He smiles back, present, every bit of him there with you in that moment, and it’s enough for you to curve your hips forward over the head of his cock. With a shudder, he presses forward and the swell of him is almost too much. Your arms wrap around his back to pull him close and you feel him draw in a breath, cursing softly in your ear. 

His first thrusts are gentle, testing, but then that restraint he feels obligated to breaks and your hips rise off the mattress to meet his. Together you chase that same need for skin on skin, stronger than the touch of his hand or his shoulder to yours and _better_ and _right_ . You kiss him, swallowing your name when he speaks it once and then again, until there’s only ragged breaths and the sounds of his hips meeting yours. 

“Fuck.” 

It sounds broken, snared in his chest and strangled and it causes you to wrench your eyes shut as the heat builds around him. You don’t need the help of his hand, not with the sounds he’s making, not with the way he’s grazing your clit with each thrust, but when he brings his fingertips to your face, his thumb passing over your bottom lip, you almost sob. Your name passes on a groan torn out of him with one violent snap followed by another, as if he can’t quite get close enough or have enough of you, even as you flutter over his cock. That same hand sweeps down and for a heartbeat it seems almost a shame for there to be something between you but then he thumbs gently at your clit and you’re undone. 

Heat sparks through you, on leg wrapping around his and fully hitching him between your thighs with the sole need to have him closer still as your whole body tightens and snaps. Your teeth pull at his neck and that’s what he needs, because he groans, curling into you and when you don’t let him loose, there’s a sobbed breath in your ear as he spills and pulses. 

Closeness. 

Human together. 

Your breath is shallow in the long moments that follow and Staci’s hand seeks yours out, clasps it, and doesn’t let go. You don’t move him. You don’t want to, even as he goes soft within you and the aftershocks rock him. His hair is damp at his temples as you brush it back with the hand he hasn’t captured. The touch brings his eyes to yours and then a breathless, dazed laugh shakes through him. It’s contagious. Some good come from an absurd situation. 

Staci slides off of you, nuzzling in at your back with his arm thrown around you, and you’ll get up in a minute and clean yourself off, you promise yourself. You don’t. You lay there and listen to his steady breaths and you sleep soundly. 

. 

……………………… 

. 

Two days later, you meet the woman whose desk you and Staci had pillaged. She’s an action hero come to life and you’d buy her figurine for your shelf at home if you could. Without a word, she sits down across from you and Staci at the corner of the bar, looking at you from behind sun-bleached bangs and the cracked rim of her aviators. 

Like a bad omen sprung to life from a book. 

She looks like she’s been burned, beaten, and thrown off a mountain all in the same day and when the first thing she tells you is that Staci had shoved her off a balcony last she had seen him, you can’t bring yourself to question it. It only occurs to you once she turns her attention to Staci that he had mentioned a second deputy escaping with him, the same deputy people in this town talk about with smiling faces. 

She’s still talking while you’re adding two and two and Staci, his fingers worrying at the label of his beer, is quiet. 

“- Eli and I are going to take the fight to that sonofabitch. You want in, Pratt?” 

Staci, who had only just begun to settle. Staci, who watches every shadow. The same Staci who’s been dealt such a brutal fucking hand...is nodding. Nodding so fervently it’s as if he’s trying to convince himself before he can back down. 

The other deputy smiles - at him, at you. She grins with teeth and a little bit of wild-card malice and you see then that there’s a different kind of broken than Staci’s. He’s been left with blunt, jagged edges but hers are razor sharp to the touch and when Staci accepts her outstretched hand, you sit back and hope to God he doesn’t get cut. What they’ve taken from him you understand that he needs to earn back for himself. Revenge if that’s what he wants to call it - he needs to turn on them what they had made. 

You’re just not sure he’ll come back from it in worse shape than he left. 

Or if he’ll come back at all. 

When Deputy Strother leaves the Spread Eagle, she stops at the door to tell Staci she’ll be waiting at the garage in town and that he should bring a bigger gun. Staci returns wordlessly to his seat beside you. 

“That,” you say when he doesn’t speak, “is one dangerous motherfucker.” 

Whatever he’s expecting, it’s not that. He snorts into what’s left of his drink. 

“She’s an asshole,” he says and there’s something sad about the way he says it, “But yeah, she’s dangerous. I think...I think she’s gonna drag our asses out of the flames whether we like it or not.” 

You hate for his sake to say what you do. 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” 

Staci hums quietly. 

“Sure feels that way. What they did to us...this is gonna get real bad, sweetheart.” He looks away and when the neon light hits his eyes for just a fleeting moment, you see a flash of that same dangerous edge. “I’m trying not to look forward to it.” 

He’s serious. 

“You have to remember when you’re out there,” you gesture vaguely, letting your hand fall to his lap, “Life’s going to be normal again one day. There’s...an _after_ once all this is done and the National Guard rolls their lazy asses in. And... I mean, I don’t just mean me, of course. I’m trying to say that...that…” 

You can feel yourself blushing down to the tip of your nose and whatever you were trying to say, you’ve lost it now. Staci raises a hand to your chin and catches it under his thumb. 

“You should keep your head down. Listen to Mary May and Jerome. And... for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t pay any attention to that maniac John Seed.” 

He stands then, suddenly taller than he had been in the chair. You feel silly being surprised by it. He looks stronger too, like maybe, if you’re both lucky, he can bear the brunt of what he’s walking into. His fingers under your jaw tilt your face up and his mouth slides over yours. It’s bittersweet and the things you have left to say are hard to swallow. 

Between soft kisses, you whisper quietly, “You owe me dinner.” 

“I owe you a lot,” he says, “And I like you too much. When the dust settles, I’d like to love you…I’d like to try.” 

With one last kiss, he’s walking out the door. You watch him go and when the roar of a loud engine fires up outside a few minutes later, you turn away. There’s a lot to do in Hope County, a lot gone wrong. You’re in it now and it might be worth staying. 


End file.
